


A Series of Shorts

by OrdinaryBird



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Angst, Gen, Humor, M/M, Other, Tumblr Prompt, Typical Night Vale Weirdness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 03:03:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3879745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrdinaryBird/pseuds/OrdinaryBird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles in response to <a href="http://generalcupcakery.tumblr.com/post/118037912008/peekbelowthesurface-send-me-a-number-and-two">a tumblr fic meme</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Abandoned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Earlos: "Abandoned". Requested by Valda.

The meeting room in the rec center is packed with children. The Cub Scouts, wide-eyed and incredulous, are in the front, but the bigger boys in the back are only barely paying attention. They’ve heard this before.

The boys are _shhhhed_ into near silence, feet shifting in the hot stillness of the room. The younger boys fidget in their places, sitting on the floor, nervous.

“You’ll know what it is when it comes,” Earl says, smiling. Accessible. Roger fiddles with a badge on his uniform, biting his lip. Has he heard this before, too? “All you have to do is turn on the radio and listen. Pay attention. Follow instructions.”

He could never tell them that time was irreparably broken, that they were slapping bandaids over a wound gushing minutes and hours and decades into the void. There wasn’t anything they could do about it, and they were scared enough as it was. They didn’t need to know what would happen if they didn’t listen.

They knew him as a leader, a guide. They did not need to see him as a cautionary tale.

 

Of course he had loved Cecil. When he was a kid. He’d spent far longer than most as a kid, nineteen and on the cusp of real adulthood, a brain still developing, stuck in limbo for years because one time–one–he didn’t get the warning to lean close to the speaker, close his eyes, feel the prickling on his scalp creep down into his brain, the vertigo pulling him along through time with everyone else.

He snapped back through, rocketed into adulthood, and left puppy-love behind, of course. He grew up in the span of an afternoon, grabbed the responsibility of work and parenting and held on, let it anchor him in place.

Of course he had moved on. But the world, the tiny world of Night Vale, had moved on much faster without him.

The calls started shortly after Carlos disappeared. Earl could scarcely call up the searing, childish jealousy he once felt so intensely. “It’s not that I don’t trust him,” Carlos had said, “I know he wouldn’t lie on purpose, not if he didn’t have to. But he sounds so different.”  
They talked a few times a week. At first Earl only kept him up to date; anything more than that would be wrong, would be intrusive, and he kept his emotions to himself. _Cecil is fine. Cecil is safe. Cecil survived the antiques all right but is now in existential crisis, so maybe you should call tonight and stay on the line as long as you can. Cecil just drunk-dialed me and was trying not to cry, maybe you should do the projection thing because I think he needs to see your face._

Carlos did not keep his feelings hidden. He was worried, but he was grateful, so, so grateful. _You’re a good friend, Earl. He’s lucky to have you._

_You’re a good friend, Earl. I’m lucky to have you on my side._

Sometimes he would project into the alley behind the kitchen on Earl’s break, the image hovering a few inches above one of the crates while Earl drank coffee and caught him up. At first they talked only about Cecil, and then Night Vale in general, and then themselves,  
Carlos’ work in the desert, Earl’s son earning badges and bringing up his grades.

Once he projected into the dining room to help Roger with his nuclear physics homework.

 

Of course he swallowed the feelings when they started. He had so much more responsibility now–a house, a dog, a boy to raise–and there was no room for the impulsiveness of his prolonged youth. _And anyway he’s like totally head over heels for your best friend, your oldest friend, someone you would never, ever even dream of hurting. And anyway he’s so far away and you’ve never technically been in the same room._

And of course he stopped calling when Cecil got his vacation approved. That was what the calls were for, right? He was polite and kind, just like Cecil said. He was perfectly imperfect, just like Cecil said. He’d asked Earl to keep an eye on his boyfriend, make sure he was safe, that he ate regularly, that he wasn’t alone. And now Carlos could do all that. He’d fulfilled his duty, as a friend, and now he could relax. Of course he was grateful for that. Of course he was glad they were happy together, wherever they were, and he was not jealous at all to think of their long dark nights under a blanket of stars covering the void.

And anyway he had no time to be jealous. He swallowed the scared-thoughts and the aloneness-thoughts like he swallowed the cold coffee from the bottom of the mug, with a grimace at their bitterness.

 

“We’ve a family,” he continues, smiling down at the scared boys in front, “we’re a community. Just listen and follow the change and you won’t get left behind. Remember, we all go together when we go.”

He looks around. He lies. “If you listen and do what you’re supposed to, you won’t be abandoned.”


	2. Are You Challenging Me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carlos/Cecil, "Are you challenging me?" Requested by Anon
> 
> (also, no, I have no idea who Carlos is telling this story to)

In my observations on the subject, I have realized what may be the two most important facts about my boyfriend:

1\. Cecil does not often differentiate between “minor threat” and “serious risk”. It is highly possible that his personal danger meter was broken and jumps from green to red with very little provocation; and  
2.Cecil, when feeling slightly threatened, turns into a bird. Well, not literally, because he actually stays humanish, but he is very much like a bird because he rolls up onto the balls of his feet and raises his arms slightly like he’s puffing up to make himself bigger, and it’s actually ridiculously adorable but I have to try not to laugh because then he gets annoyed and fluffs even more and we get into a giggle-fluff feedback loop that can last hours.

 

For example:  
Cecil is pretty good at chess, because he is very good at predicting what choices people might make. I am not particularly good at chess; I am a scientist, not a strategist, and anyway I always forget how the little horse piece moves.

So one day we were at his sister’s, right, and Steve comes home and Ceec is immediately like “Oh my god, Carlos, let’s just go home,” and Abby’s like “noooo you guys should stay for dinner!” and Cecil is like “Oh god no” but we ended up staying anyway because Janice made puppy eyes and seriously, no one can resist that. And then after dinner I was talking to Steve about some stuff and I mentioned that Cecil is, like, really good at chess.

And Ceec is already bristling, like he’s looking for an excuse to get out of there, but then Steve says, “Oh hey, brother, I didn’t know you played chess,” and that was already a problem because Cecil _passionately hates_ when Steve calls him that, so of course when Steve says “you know I’m not bad at chess myself” Cecil got all fluffed up like he does and I had to bite my sleeve so I wouldn’t laugh, because he’s staring down Steve on his own patio, up on his toes and he says, real low and and dangerous, he says,

_“You challenging me, Carlsberg?”_

And Steve misses the social cues entirely and he’s like “Sure, yeah, if you wanna play!” and Abby goes in to get the chess set and Cecil’s back is up and even when he sits in the chair he’s making this face ヽ(ｏ`皿′ｏ)ﾉ

Um.

Cecil is usually not that competitive. And he’s never been much a sore loser before. Also he seems very respectful of candles, even the citronella ones that have no place in bloodstone ritual.

Anyway, that’s the story of how Ceec accidentally set a patio on fire.


	3. Keeping a Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Janice and Carlos, "Keeping a secret". Requested by pochimonster.
> 
> (also, this is based on my immortaldeathwish!Cecil feelings, even if I'm not convinced it will become canon.)

“Hey babe?”

Janice looked up from her book. Carlos, who was the person Uncle Cecil was actually talking to, looked up as well.

“Can you, uh, keep an eye on Janice for a little while? I gotta–I gotta do a thing.”

“Oh, sure.” Carlos smiled.

“Thanks.” Uncle Cecil kissed his cheek quickly, then darted toward the door.

She stared at Carlos for a moment. Carlos stared back and smiled. “Hey. Wanna see something cool?”

He always said that. It usually meant “hey, let’s do some science!” and she liked that a lot. One time, he helped her make a volcano with vinegar, baking soda, food coloring and fireworks, and after they put out the fires in the rec center she won second place in the science fair. He always seemed a little nervous around her until they started blowing things up.

But she wasn’t in the mood today. She shook her head and looked back down at her book.

“You okay?” he asked.

 

Janice was good at keeping secrets. A few weeks ago, her best friend finally confessed that the huge crush she was always talking about was on Tamika, and Janice didn’t even tell _anyone_. When Uncle Cecil came over to shout at her dad for a while, she didn’t usually tell her mom because then she would call him and argue with him on the phone for hours and anyway her dad didn’t seem to mind that much when he got yelled at.

One time she found a baby bird and hid it in her room for three days before her mom found it.

Janice was very good at keeping secrets.

But she didn’t like keeping secrets from Carlos. He was nice. She liked him a lot.

Last week, she overheard Uncle Cecil arguing with her mom. She wasn’t a snoop or anything, but they talked so loud and sometimes she thought they forgot she could understand them.

“You have to tell him,” her mom said.

“Maybe.” He paused, and Janice saw him shrug. “Okay. Fine. But not yet.”

“Are you kidding? I can’t believe you haven’t told him already. He deserves to know what he’s up against.”

“Yeah, but, it’s a lot. It’s just too much, and what if he won’t–what if he can’t–”

“Cecil, this isn’t some little nothing detail. Eventually he’s going to notice, because you aren’t part of his normal.”

“I swear I will tell him.”

“You should have told him already.”

“I can’t just–! Abby. Listen, okay? First of all. There hasn’t been an incident in years. And I don’t want to become just, like a scientific curiosity.”

“Do you really think he’d feel that way?”

He shrugged again. “It’s how I feel sometimes. And maybe it would be, you know, the distance he’d need. To tolerate the whole…thing.” He sighed. “Who knows? Maybe he’d find a way to–to stop this.”

“Cecil _do not talk like that._ ”

And Janice knew what they were talking about, and she was afraid, and she slipped down the hall as quietly as she could, steering around the creakier floorboards and put her head under a pillow until her heart stopped pounding.

 

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Janice chewed the end of one of her braids and said nothing else.

“Okay.” Carlos smiled.

They sat in silence for a moment. Janice pretended to read. Carlos was looking out a window with his hand in the pocket of his lab coat. 

He opened and closed his mouth a few times.

“Hey Janice,” he said finally. He smiled like the sunlight coming from behind a storm cloud, pulled a small blue box from his pocket and tossed it back and forth between his hands. “Can you keep a secret?”


	4. Cookies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Earl and Cecil, "Cookies". Requested by straydog733.

These days, Earl only felt a little out of place in Cecil’s apartment. There was an empty space in the row of shoes by the door where his would be, an empty spot on the coat rack in case he was wearing a jacket.

There was, usually, an empty spot at the table for him to sit, with room for a cup of coffee. But not today.

The apartment smelled terrible. The table and counter were cluttered with scorched pans and mixing bowls and everything seemed to have a fine coating of flour, including Cecil, whose hair was greyed with it.

Cecil was at the stove, staring angrily into a box of recipe cards, as though preparing to scold them.

“I don’t understand,” he burst out, before Earl even finished getting the second shoe off, “they always came out fine when my mother made them. These are her stupid recipes anyway.” He gestured at Earl with a wooden spoon. “There is no reason why this place shouldn’t be absolutely filled with beautiful cookies and smell like homey holiday commercials.”

“Wait, back up.” Earl crossed into the kitchen with delicate steps and pulled the recipe card from Cecil’s hands. “What do you need all these cookies for again?”

“Bake sale,” he spat. “ _Steve Carlsberg_ is probably going to make those stupid scones and say something like ‘oh heh heh Cecil why don’t you ever home-bake anything’ and I am _not_ going to endure his mockery again, Earl, I have had _enough_ of that.”

“Okay.” Earl did not ask why Cecil was so irrationally opposed to his brother-in-law again, because last time Cecil had screamed himself hoarse and hissed his name on air so venomously that even Telly the Barber, out in the sand wastes, had glowered menacingly at him. No need to put himself on the wrong end of the power of suggestion.

He squinted at the card, then the knob on the stove. “Okay, first of all, you don’t need to bake cookies over the fires of hell.”

“I thought a higher temperature would cook them faster.”

“Cecil. No. That is not at all how baking works. Turn it down to 375.”

He continued reading, pretending he didn’t notice Cecil’s expectant eyes on him. “Also, your mom’s recipe uses…wheat flour. And you have–rice flour. You can’t just use straight rice flour, Cecil. Not all flour behaves the same way. What other options do you have?”

Earl dug through the cabinets, and gave Cecil a crash-course in non-wheat flours and separating eggs and how long one must chant over light brown sugar to make it dark.

“Baking is science, Cecil,” Earl said as they rolled the dough into little balls.

“I thought it was art.” Cecil sounded vaguely accusing. “You said it was art.”

“Well, yeah, but it’s also science. The art comes later. Keep rolling.”

The apartment still smelled like things that had recently been on fire. Cecil opened a window while Earl readjusted the spacing of the spheres and started pressing the thumbprints.

Cecil followed, spooning jam into the little dips he left behind.

“Very pretty,” Earl mumbled. He opened the oven, which had probably cooled enough by now, and when he stood up from putting the tray on the rack he ran into the open beer bottle he was being handed.

“Sorry!” Cecil brushed the bits of foam out of his hair and extended his hand more cautiously. “Here. I think we’ve earned these. They’re Carlos’, but I don’t think he’ll mind.”

_Carlos is so far away_ , he did not say. _I get terribly lonely_ , he also did not say. He said, “Thanks for your help,” and Earl knew just how much he was being thanked for.


	5. Starvation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Earl and Carlos, "Starvation". Requested by [longhairshortfuse](http://archiveofourown.org/users/longhairshortfuse/pseuds/longhairshortfuse)

Earl learned about deprivation early.

Speaking his mind was trouble; at best he would be ridiculed, at worst he would be in danger. He did not fully understand how what he said was so horribly wrong, but everyone else seemed to get on okay. So he learned to smile and stay quiet, to follow the conversational lead of those around him. He liked being in the Scouts because the troop came with a sense of camaraderie, and the wilderness was kind of an alone-place, a place where he didn’t have to try so hard.

He got older. There was more to hide, more things not to say. He took a kind of twisted pride in his secrets, a Puritan satisfaction in the needs he did not meet. He didn’t need anyone. He was an island.

And of course Cecil was exactly the opposite. Cecil was a benevolent black hole, Cecil clamored to fill the hollowness inside himself. He never shut up. When they were alone he whispered fears, his wide, dark eyes searching for reassurance, and when they were with peers he was bright, a fearless show-off and an irrepressible gossip.

After enough time, the brain forgets to tell the body what it needs, because it knows it will be ignored anyway. But sometimes the body wins, and reaches for what it craves without looking for permission from higher up.

That was probably why his last words, before the Eternal Scout ceremony, seemed such a surprise even to his oldest friend.

 

Carlos kind of threw a wrench in the whole thing. At first he thought Carlos was like him–an island of a man, sitting at a banquet with an empty plate just to prove he could do withstand the sights and smells.

But…no. Carlos was reasonably normal, as far as he could tell. He reached for exactly what he wanted, nothing less and nothing more. He sat somewhere between Cecil and Earl on a spectrum of human hunger, of animal needs that everyone was aware of but no one seemed willing to acknowledge.

This made discussing any kind of arrangement difficult. Because Cecil got overwhelmed with excitement on the could-bes and mights, and Carlos stated exactly how he felt without fear or shame.

And Earl said nothing.

All these years of denial left him without the words to understand what he wanted. Cecil was increasingly frustrated. And even if Earl had the words to describe it, Cecil would not have understood. He wasn’t the kind of person who constantly needed to prove his strength, his lack of need.

“What is it?” Carlos was direct in speech but his eyes were kind. Cecil had fluttered off somewhere ‘to go make a phone call’, but he was probably just grumbling about how difficult Earl was being.

Earl shrugged.

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t have words for it. This whole thing…it’s like you two are trying to describe what peppermint tastes like, and I’ve never even smelled it.”

“Do you want this to happen?”

Earl’s eyebrows contracted in thought. Carlos didn’t pressure him for a response right away, and that was nice, because he wasn’t even sure what “want” meant.

There were two kinds of “want” here, and one was much more comfortable. It was the familiar desire for distance, that saintly self-denial he’d learned to be satisfied with. That part wanted to watch them hold hands and kiss and touch without reaching forward, without saying anything or even allowing himself to think that it was something he could have too. That part said _this is not a normal relationship_ in the same voice the other kids used to say _oh my god Earl that is so weird_. It said _you do not deserve this_. It said _don’t be greedy, young man_ , in Grandma Harlan’s voice.

But Carlos reached across the table and laid a hand gently across the top of his, and that hand was cool, implying shade and shelter, a safe place.

Something buzzed in his pocket. Cecil.

**Sorry I got snappy. I like you.**

And then,

**Stop being stubborn and date me already damn you :P**

Earl looked up from the small screen and snapped the phone closed.

“Yeah,” he breathed, “I want this.”


	6. Do Not Disturb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Station Management and Khoshekh, "Do Not Disturb". Requested by pochimonster.

Here’s an interesting fact: there is evidence to suggest that cats regard humans as larger, clumsier versions of themselves. This makes a lot of sense to me, of course, because I often feel like Khoshekh regards me as more than just the person who makes sure the interns put enough kibble in his bowl, or that the tap is always running, or that his tiny little eyepatch covers the socket that once held one of those milky white eyes. We’re family, he and I. He’s my baby.

But here’s another interesting fact: in certain ways, Khoshekh resembles Station Management more closely than he does any other cat I’ve seen. Now as I’ve said before, no pet is perfect. And anyway, he’s a stray. We should just be grateful for the furry, tentacled bundles of love that drop into our laps, metaphorically speaking, rather than being picky about breed. Most things that drop into our laps are much less pleasant than cats.

As you know, I recently had the opportunity to look at Station Management, sort of mano-a-mano, as it were, and I…think I blocked most of it out. As a defensive measure. Of course you all remember that from your school Repression Drills.

But I know that tendril hub anywhere. And that growly-laughing sound? Maybe it was…purring? I don’t know. Anyway. Last night I left my jacket in the broadcast booth. And it’s a pretty nice jacket, not one I was willing to leave behind. So I snuck back into the office and grabbed my coat and I definitely heard that growly-laugh-purr from the men’s bathroom.

Station Management’s door was open.

I know. I should have just gone home, minded my own business. But I have to admit, I was worried about Khoshekh. He doesn’t even have depth perception, probably, and even if he did, he can’t escape what happens to him because he’s always hovering at the same fixed point. I didn’t want anything else to happen to my boy.

You understand, don’t you?

Now, Khoshekh is usually pretty excited to see me. Like I said, he sees me as–a parent maybe. Or an older sibling. A caretaker. Of some kind.

So, I poked my head in the station bathroom. The dark, swirling mass blotted out almost all of the fluorescent light. At first I was worried that Station Management was going to absorb my cat, but…I think they were snuggling? Like, not in a weird way, but definitely like…like…

Family.

It was actually _really cute_.

Thankfully Station Management didn’t notice I was there. Khoshekh did though, and he made that little warning screech he does before he nips at you and empties his venom sacks, so I think they needed some…some family time.

Huh. Maybe that’s why I got my vacation time approved. Maybe Station Management also sees me as a clumsier, but smaller version of itself, derived from its great, seething bulk. Maybe it recognizes me as one of Khoshekh’s caretakers. 

Maybe as his brother.

Listeners, I have _always wanted_ a brother.

Either way. I left them alone to have their family time.

Where was I going with this?

…  
Right. This has been: _Children’s Fun-Fact Science Corner._


	7. Sport

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cecil and Steve, "Sport". Requested by longhairshortfuse.

The Vultures were playing the Scorpions again, and Janice insisted on going.

But (and here was the problem), she wanted the whole family to go. Mom. Dad. Both Uncles. She would have brought the cat if she could.

And this meant that Cecil was now, urgh, dark masters, surrounded by the nauseating smell of hot dogs and sitting next to _Steve Carlsberg_ and absolutely wishing he could go back in time, with a blow gun and some fatal toxin, and end that unfortunate marriage before it could begin.

But he couldn’t find that stupid time device anywhere, and Carlos hadn’t seen it either, so he was stuck.

“Relax, Ceec,” Carlos insisted, offering him pastel sugar on a stick. “It’ll be great! I used to go to baseball games all the time!”

“I think,” he added hesitantly.

“Yeah!” Janice squeaked from Steve’s other side, and she had clearly been given access to far more cotton candy than she needed at her age. “We’re gonna crush ‘em, Uncle Cecil. We will destroy Desert Bluffs for the glory of the Brown Stone Spire!”

“She just had her first Thanksgiving,” Abby hissed down the line in a stage whisper. “She’s fascinated.”

Steve made that completely obnoxious sound he tried to pass off as a chuckle and said, “That’s my girl,” in a non-committed and frankly inattentive kind of way. Did he even hear what she said? That wasn’t usually the kind of thing Steve agreed with. Ugh. How inconsistent. How unreliable. Just like Steve.

Cecil was not particularly invested in sports. He knew what games were when by virtue of his job, which he took seriously, an example which _some other people_ might do well to follow. And he wasn’t entirely sure where Janice had gotten this sudden interest.  
Maybe it had something to do with the Scouts? He knew the local Brownie troop had recently squared off with a pack of Sunfire Girls who got too close the Night Vale city limits, and in the aftermath of the Competitive Bake Sale and Weapons Raffle sent those creepy-eyed girls weeping into the cold bright arms of their worthless, dusty town.

Cecil wasn’t sure if Janice had been involved with that personally, but he still supported her show of civic pride.

Oh heavens above, Steve was cheering now, and talking sports terms, like he actually knew what was going on, and if he caught one more elbow to the ribs Cecil was going to take off a shoe and hit Steve with it until he stopped moving.

But then, oh sweet Carlos, his best-beloved Carlos, possibly sensing danger, offered him a sweet, quick peck on the lips, a kiss that tasted like candy floss, and thereby may have saved Steve Carlsberg’s life.


	8. Expectation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Janice and Erika, "Expectation". Requested by pochimonster.

The Human Child glides effortlessly and doesn’t want any help. She is sweet.

She did not cry when we spoke to her. Which was a relief. She’s far too young to ascend and anyway she seems so happy here.

She is a practical child. She hears everything she is told and knows how to respond, but she makes up her own mind about things, which, frankly, is a relief because her father is absolutely the worst at knowing what to say.

Initially we tried to work with him, but he kept saying “angel” and his voice is extremely loud and everything we tried to tell him got scrubbed out by the Secret Police so after a while we just grabbed the salt shaker and ran.

Asking the child was Josie’s idea. “That girl is clever,” she said, stirring the chili in the crock pot. Erika, Erika and I were at the table, heads pressed together, despairing. “And what you’re asking isn’t all that bad. She’s taken worse chances to sell cookies.”  
Erika and I met eyes and nodded. Erika wasn’t convinced but she agreed to give it a shot because we didn’t have anything else to try, really.

 

We approached the child on a Wednesday afternoon, shortly after she returned from school.

“I thought you’d be taller,” she said, leaning back in her chair to look us in the eyes. “I mean you’re pretty tall, but I was expecting you to be taller.”

“Maybe it’s because you’re always with Old Woman Josie and she’s pretty small,” she went on, rolling gently back and forth, like other human children who fidget by shifting their weight from foot to foot. “So you look bigger by comparison.”

“Child–”

“You can call me Janice,” she said, and her smile was sweet.

“Janice. We need your assistance. We can return to you the salt shaker of your father if you will help.”

“Okay.”

“You do not want to know what we require before you agree?”

“Nah,” she said, “You’re an–I mean, I know you. You’re Erika. And you’re Erika too. I know you’re probably okay.”

Josie was correct. The child is bright.

We would need knowledge forbidden by the City Council. The child was not in grave danger by knowing it, since the City Council forbids so much and this was probably not the first law she had broken, but we had thought finding it would be difficult.

“We can just ask my dad.”

“No, child–”

“Janice,” she corrected.

“No, Janice, we have spoken to your father. He is not…able to assist us in this way.”

“Trust me, he knows. He probably just thought you were spies for the world government stationed here under deep cover, and that’s why he didn’t tell you.”

“No ch–”

Erika nudged me carefully and cleared her throat.

“No, Janice,” I went on. “He knows we are angels, but he is…careless in speech.”

“Oh.”

“We have considered, and thought that perhaps we could appear to him in a vision–”

“I can just ask him.”

Erika and I exchanged a curious look. “He would tell you?”

“Yeah! He loves talking about that stuff. I’ll ask him after dinner.”

 

We had assumed it would be far more difficult, really. We appeared unto her in the late afternoon (night is generally better for divine appearances but her mother chased us off the porch with a broom) and she gave us the information we needed.

We returned the salt shaker with a grateful flourish. She had done well and had earned her reward.

“Oh. Thanks.” And then after a moment, sliding back and forth, “you want a brownie? My mom made brownies.”

We broke bread with the child and her mother, who was much more agreeable towards us in the light of day.


End file.
